


Adjustments

by Jenni_Snake



Series: Who You Are [6]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 07:35:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenni_Snake/pseuds/Jenni_Snake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even the smallest changes take a little bit of getting used to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adjustments

**Author's Note:**

> This is Part 6 of a seven part series set in late Season 3 (apologies for any inconsistencies). This part can be read on its own.

Garak stopped pacing about the shop only when Chief O'Brien emerged from beneath the console he had been working on and began packing up his tools. He hadn’t said more than two words in the hour he had spent working there, just that he’d had a request to overhaul the climate control. When Garak pointed out that he hadn’t put in a request, O'Brien just shrugged. As he was leaving, Garak hesitantly offered the chief his appreciation, to which O'Brien replied that he didn’t want Garak’s thanks, and muttered something about being owed a hell of a lot of games of tennis. Garak stood for a moment in silence before daring to swipe a hand across the console. Without question, the one control he had never been able to override now allowed him to raise the temperature to a comfortable twenty-nine degrees Celsius. He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding in, felt a warmth he hadn’t remembered having missed, and for the first time admitted that this station might actually be livable. He wished he had given Chief O’Brien a more sincere thanks.

*

They often showed up distracted by conversation, eyes glancing over the things that the shops had on offer, not interested in them, but as a pleasant distraction, like pretty baubles in a museum. It was easy to tell that they were visitors: life here required a certain period of acclimatization. They might pass by every day, but only for a few days, and then they would move on to wherever their lives were taking them. Only those with nowhere to go remained on the station.

Garak rarely tried talking to any customer who didn’t seek him out, and sometimes it was obvious that they would never buy anything, like the Bajoran child whose mother picked them up something to eat each morning from the opposite stall, but let her daughter go just long enough to wander over and fondle the scarves. Garak watched as he wrapped a bolt of cloth: she would caress one fabric, then the next and the next, but return to the first, the softest, with a smile on her face. Then her mother would call her and they’d disappear down the promenade.

Just after, Lieutenant Dax would stride by on her way to her post, like clockwork: oh-eight-hundred hours almost to the second, on a regular day. Garak could judge the moments of panic on the station by her absence in the morning. On occasion she would plan to be a few minutes early, and would stroll past peering through windows with her hands behind her back and a smile on her face. It was on one of these mornings, when the Bajoran girl and her mother had just disappeared from view that the lieutenant wandered by, stopping to weigh a length of fabric in her hands. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, turning over all the reasons to engage and to avoid her.

As if she were a butterfly easily scared away, Garak drew in a breath and approached in one fluid movement. Hesitantly, he described to her the anti-chafing qualities of the Altarian silk that he had just received, the best fabric in the Alpha quadrant for reducing irritation on sensitive trill markings. She listened to him with a kind smile, and replied to his suggestions with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. After he presented her with the fabric, allowing her to scrutinize it and give her excuses to think about purchasing it, she hurried away with a practised reassuring smile and nod.

It took him a while to get used to not seeing the Bajoran girl or her mother, but he especially missed the lieutenant, who he presumed had found a safer route to her station.

*

The Vulcan nurse, who had already been on the station for four months had hitherto only perused the food stalls on the promenade, particularly those with open grills (though by the sight of him he could have eaten no more than twice a week, if that). In the previous couple of weeks, however, he had become interested in Garak’s sartorial offerings, or, judging by the fray on the cuffs of his medical uniform and the small tear on the seam of one shoulder, the temperature of his shop. He spent his break time matching buttons in the overloaded baskets, or gaging the merits of fabrics he would never buy. Garak didn’t mind much - even one customer in the shop helped make it seem busy.

It was later that afternoon, just after the Vulcan had wandered in under the pretext of examining the size of every available pair of pants, when Major Kira marched up to Garak brandishing a copy of the on-station business district bylaws and wearing a look of accusation that spoke volumes before she even said a word. She had never been one to deal politely with a Cardassian, and Garak noted that today would be no exception. In the following thirty seconds she rattled off a list of complaints from customers and other shopkeepers, cited twelve different paragraphs and subsections of the bylaws, and, patting at the droplets of sweat that had sprung up on her hairline, questioned the sanity of anyone who could live at such an unbearable temperature. In his defence, Garak petulantly pointed out that the argument was rather one-sided, and that Nurse Skarnet didn’t seem to mind. He had tried to say it with sincerity, but even he heard the tone of sarcasm drench his words. Unimpressed, the major glared at him and retorted that her primary duty was to the citizens of the station. Disappointed by his inability for the third time in as many weeks to deal congenially with any of the Starfleet officers who presented themselves to him, Garak decided not to point out that he, too, was among those citizens, and remained silent. The major paused only for a brief moment before realizing she would not be in for a fight. Then, with a reprimand to keep the temperature under control, she strode back out onto the promenade.

*

Even on raucous nights like these, with two Klingons being escorted out of the holosuites and a Dabo game about to go sour, Garak never sat long at the bar before Quark made his way over and sat his drink on the counter in front of him. It was difficult at the best of times to discern whether Quark’s smile was insolent or earnest, but tonight he wore it wearily, almost imploring Garak not to add to his problems. Garak met his eyes, then dropped his gaze to his glass. He drew it towards himself with one hand as the other slid a strip of latinum to Quark who took it without a word and disappeared. Garak downed his drink and stared at the empty glass with a sigh. Despite what was said about talk being cheap, he seemed unable to get it for all the latinum in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> *Series Update: I have been lost in other projects recently, so thank you for reading this far, and I will try to get up the last part before 05-2014 (big promises, I know! ;))


End file.
